The God of Ruin’s Pocket Change

CHAPTER 7: The Engine Roar

"Move," Anya hissed, tugging at the sleeve of my hoodie. "We have to get off the main grid. Now."

I stumbled after her, my feet heavy and clumsy in the sludge. The mud in this alley wasn't just dirt and water; it was a living, sucking entity that wanted to pull my sneakers off. Shhh-luck. Shhh-luck.

"We have a contract," I reminded her, wiping rain from my eyes. "I provided the capital and you provide the logistics. Currently, the logistics involve a lot of walking in sewage."

"Quiet," she snapped. Her voice was tight, vibrating with a frequency that set my teeth on edge. She kept looking over her shoulder, her eyes darting to the rooftops, the shadows, the mouth of the alley.

I was still chewing on the memory of the rat.

The flavor was clinging to the roof of my mouth, a stubborn film of burnt fur and rancid grease. I tried to generate some saliva to wash it down, but my mouth was dry. My stomach, while no longer screaming in agony, was sitting heavy and hot, pulsing with the effort of digesting something that was clearly never meant to be food.

"Do you have a mint?" I asked. "Or perhaps a piece of charcoal? I need to scour my palate."

Anya didn't answer. She froze.

She stopped so suddenly I almost walked into her. She stood perfectly still, one foot raised out of the mud, her head cocked to the side like a bird listening for a predator.

"What is it?" I asked. "Did you find a menu?"

"Shhh," she whispered.

I listened.

The rain was falling. Hiss. Hiss. A distant siren wailed. The sound of water dripping from a rusted gutter. 

And then, I felt it.

It didn't start in my ears. It started in the soles of my feet.

A vibration.

It was low, deep, and rhythmic. It traveled up through the rubber of my celestial sneakers, through my shins, and rattled the bones of my knees.

I looked down at a puddle near my foot. The black water was rippling. Concentric circles shivered across the surface, colliding and breaking.

"An earthquake?" I guessed. "Tectonic instability?"

"No," Anya whispered. Her face, already pale, turned the color of old milk. "Combustion."

The vibration grew. It climbed up my spine. It shook my ribs.

Then came the sound.

It sounded like a beast waking up in a cave. A mechanical, angry beast that drank gasoline and breathed fire.

"Engines," Anya said, her voice cracking. "Big ones. No mufflers."

She spun around, looking at the way we had come. Then she looked at the other end of the alley, a narrow exit leading to another street.

"Run," she said.

She grabbed my hand. Her fingers were ice cold and slippery with mud. She pulled me toward the far exit.

"Run, Russ! Move your legs!"

I tried. I really did. But running in a mortal body, in heavy mud, after eating a charred rodent, is not a graceful activity. I lumbered. I splashed. I felt like a barge trying to navigate a creek.

We made it ten feet.

Then, the world turned white.

A beam of light cut through the darkness at the far end of the alley. It was blindingly bright. A harsh, yellow halogen glare that seared my retinas.

I threw my arm up to shield my eyes.

The sound exploded.

A motorbike skidded into the alley entrance, blocking the exit.

It wasn't a bike like the sleek, hovering interceptors of the Golden Zone. This was a monster. It was built from scrap metal and hate. The frame was rusted iron, welded together with jagged seams. The tires were thick, knobby, and wrapped in chains.

But it was the spikes that caught my eye.

Welded to the handlebars, the fenders, and the gas tank were spikes. Six-inch rusted nails. Sharpened rebar. Broken glass cemented into the metal. The machine looked like a torture device on wheels.

The rider revved the engine.

Black smoke erupted from the exhaust pipe. It rolled into the alley, a thick, choking cloud of unrefined hydrocarbons.

"Back!" Anya screamed, pulling me the other way. "Go back!"

We spun around.

Too late.

Three more lights blinded us from the entrance we had just come from.

Three more bikes. Three more monsters of rust and iron. They sat side-by-side, blocking the narrow throat of the alley completely. Their engines idled with a low, threatening growl that bounced off the brick walls, amplifying the sound until it felt like my skull was vibrating.

We were boxed in.

The alley, which had felt like a refuge seconds ago, was now a cage.

The riders didn't dismount. They just sat there, revving their engines in short, aggressive bursts. Vroom. Vroom.

The exhaust fumes began to fill the space.

It was a physical assault. The smoke was thick, oily, and black. It swirled around us, cutting off the fresh air.

I coughed.

"This is..." cough "...excessive," I wheezed. "The emissions standards here must be nonexistent."

Anya wasn't worried about the emissions. She was shaking. Violent, uncontrollable tremors racked her small body. She backed up until she hit my chest, using me as a human shield.

"Iron Skulls," she whispered. "They found us. They tracked the copper."

I looked at the riders.

Through the smoke and the rain, I could see them. They were massive. Not divinely tall like me, but wide. Bulky.

They wore leather jackets that had been patched with metal plates. Their arms were covered in tattoos that moved, subdermal LEDs flickering under the skin. Some of them had jaws made of chrome. One had a camera lens instead of an eye.

They were loud. They were cybernetic. And they looked very, very angry.

"Hey!" one of them shouted over the roar of the engines. His voice was amplified by a speaker embedded in his throat. It sounded metallic and distorted. "We smell it!"

"Smell what?" I muttered, waving my hand to clear the smoke from my face. "The lack of hygiene? Because it is overwhelming."

"Copper!" the rider screamed. "We smell the copper!"

He revved his engine again. The back tire spun in the mud, spraying black sludge onto my white hoodie.

I looked down at the stain.

A dark, oily smear across the pristine celestial fabric.

I felt a twitch in my eye.

"That," I said to the rider, "was rude. This is dry-clean only."

Anya grabbed my arm, digging her fingernails into my skin through the fabric.

"Russ, shut up," she hissed. "Please. Shut up. They will kill us. They will peel us."

She was terrified. I could feel her heart racing against my arm. She reached into her pocket, the one with the stapled patch and pulled out the only weapon she had.

The handle.

The broken, taped-up handle of her shattered knife.

She held it out in front of her with both hands, the jagged stump of the blade shaking uncontrollably. It was a pathetic gesture. A kitten baring its teeth at a pack of wolves.

"Stay back!" she shrieked. Her voice was thin and reedy, swallowed instantly by the mechanical roar surrounding us.

The gang members laughed.

It wasn't a human laugh. It was a chorus of grinding gears and static.

The rider at the front, the one who had sprayed me killed his engine. The sudden silence was shocking. The other riders followed suit. One by one, the engines died, leaving only the sound of the rain and the ticking of cooling metal.

But the smoke remained.

It hung in the damp air, a sulphurous cloud that tasted of burnt oil and poison.

I inhaled.

The taste hit the back of my throat. It mixed with the lingering flavor of the charred rat meat.

My stomach heaved.

"Ugh," I groaned, putting a hand to my mouth. "The aftertaste. You ruined the aftertaste."

"Russ!" Anya whispered, terrified. "Stop talking about food!"

The rider in the front swung his leg over his bike. He stood up.

He was big. He wore a helmet made from a modified welding mask, painted with a white skull grin. He carried a length of heavy chain wrapped around his fist.

He walked toward us. His boots crunched on the broken glass and gravel.

"The Copper Man," the rider rasped. "Jori said you were shiny. Jori said you glowed."

He stopped five feet away. He tilted his masked head, looking me up and down.

"You look soft," he concluded.

"I moisturize," I said automatically.

Anya let out a small whimper. She stepped in front of me, brandishing her broken knife handle.

"Leave him alone," she stammered. "He's... he's crazy. He's got nothing. The copper was a fluke. He found it in a drain."

The rider looked at Anya. He looked at the broken handle.

He reached out a hand, a hand covered in a gauntlet made of bolts and washers and gently pushed her aside.

It wasn't a strike. It was a dismissal. He shoved her shoulder, and she went flying. She hit the brick wall and slid down into the mud, dropping the handle.

"Sit down, rat," the rider growled. "Adults are talking."

He turned his attention back to me.

"Empty the pockets," he commanded. He held out his hand. "Whatever Jori saw. Whatever you have. Drop it in the mud."

I looked at him. I looked at the chain in his hand.

Then I looked at Anya, huddled in the mud, clutching her shoulder.

But mostly, I focused on the smoke.

My eyes were watering. My nose was burning. The beautiful, complex (albeit disgusting) flavor profile of the rat skewer had been completely obliterated by the taste of cheap fuel.

I was hungry. I was tired. 

And now, I was annoyed.

"You," I said, pointing at his bike. "Your machine is inefficient. The fuel-to-air ratio is off. It smells like a burning tire factory."

The rider froze. Behind him, the other gang members shifted on their bikes.

"What?" the rider asked.

"The smoke," I said, waving my hand again. "It is stinging my eyes. And it is ruining my digestion. I ate a very specific meal, and now all I taste is your incompetence."

The rider stared at me. The white skull painted on his mask seemed to grin wider.

"You're funny," he said. "I like funny. Funny screams louder."

He unwrapped the chain from his fist. It clattered against the pavement. It was heavy iron, rusted and stained with things I didn't want to identify.

"Last chance, soft-skin," he said. "Empty the pockets. Or I open you up and find the copper myself."

I sighed.

A long, heavy sigh that rattled deep in my mortal chest.

I looked up at the sliver of sky between the buildings. No clouds. No help. Just rain and smog.

I looked back at the rider.

"I am currently experiencing a caloric deficit," I informed him. "My patience is directly tied to my blood sugar. And right now, both are at zero."

I didn't reach for my pockets. I didn't reach for the gum wrapper.

I just stood there, letting the rain wash the soot off my face, staring at the man who thought a chain made him powerful.

Behind me, the other bikers kicked their stands down. They were getting off their bikes. They were pulling out tire irons. Crowbars. More chains.

We were surrounded.

Anya was sobbing quietly in the mud.

The smoke swirled around us, thick and choking.

"Have it your way," the rider said. He swung the chain. It whistled in the air.

I watched the chain.

I watched the rust flakes fly off it.

I really, really hated rust.